


something wicked

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Season/Series 01, Ward x Simmons Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4401473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant stumbles on something unexpected while searching the remains of a Centipede research facility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something wicked

**Author's Note:**

> I started this _ages_ ago - I remember working on it last year even - but I finally finished it for the current wssummer challenge: supernatural.

Grant eases around the corner, checking for any signs of life before heading down the hall, gun at the ready. Up until about an hour ago this place was a prison holding men being experimented on by Centipede. Grant doesn’t expect to find any survivors this deep. It’s clear, from the state of the upper levels, that the raid was expected, and this project can’t afford to leave any loose ends.

“Skye?” he asks softly.

Her voice in his ear is loud against the quiet of the hallway. “What’s up? You find anyone?” They’re going to have a talk about regulation communications later. For now, he lets her attitude slide.

“Have you got those security cameras working?” He doesn’t expect her to; he’s lucky he’s got lights down here.

“Not yet and Fitz doesn’t seem too confident.”

“The entire system’s been fried!” he yells in the background.

“Yeah, so it looks like you’re on your own.”

“Great,” Grant mutters. “Let me know if you get anything. It’d be nice to know if I’m walking into trouble.”

“Will do.”

The line cuts out, leaving him in silence. This is the hardest part of this mission. He knows he’s supposed to be playing the compassionate SHIELD agent but his instincts tell him to drop anyone left in the facility. It’s not just because anyone left behind has the potential to screw up Garrett’s plans either. Each one of these rooms has thick concrete walls and doors built to take a grenade. Anyone left alive in any of them will be dangerous, and he doesn’t want them on the Bus.

He stops at the next corner, forces his grip on his weapon to relax. Two deep breaths in … and out, just the way May’s been teaching him. The air’s so much colder down here than on the ground floor that he can see his breath. He waits until the fog fully dissipates.

Around the corner, he finds the first open cell he’s seen since breaking off from the rest of the team. It puts him instantly back on edge. So much for breathing exercises.

He taps his earpiece. “I think I’ve found something.”

“Something like … a person?” Skye asks.

“Maybe. Hold on.”

He barely breathes as he slides along the wall. Faint, rattling breaths reach him. Whatever’s alive in there, it’s not doing too good. Still, no reason not to be cautious. All at once he steps into the doorway and aims his gun at the first thing he sees.

It’s one of the prisoners, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. Grant would think he was dead if his chest wasn’t moving. Barely.

“Send Simmons. I’ve got a live one.”

“Already on my way.”

He grits his teeth. Apparently he’ll be having a talk with Skye _and_ Simmons after this mission.

“Third floor down,” he says, “two lefts and right. It’s literally the only open door down here.”

“That’s … convenient.”

“Isn’t it though?”

The man doesn’t look in any state to be putting up a fight. He’s got the same implants on his arms as most of the other guys in this place and he looks as strong as Grant under the flimsy shirt they’ve given him, but right now he’s just gaping at the ceiling.

“Sir?” Grant asks. “Sir, you’re gonna be all right. We’ve got a medic coming.”

In his ear, Simmons reminds him she’s not that kind of a doctor. He ignores her and takes a half-step through the door. He needs to be ready in case this is a trap but he also needs to determine if this guy’s a threat before Simmons gets down here.

“You’re going to be fine. Whatever they did to you, we-”

The cold grips Grant’s heart like a vice. Each breath he takes is like a lungful of icy water. It’s like the staff. All of the pain and fear and desperation but none of the purpose. He tries to reach for the desire to hurt, so present over the last few weeks, but finds himself oddly empty. There’s nothing to hold onto. No drive, no hope, no mission. There’s only the chill of unerring despair. He feels the brush of thin, bony fingers along his jaw, tilting his head back.

Firm, warm hands grip his arm and he falls backward from his knees. (When did he fall to his knees?) The hands don’t let go and a foot slips on the floor, kicking him in the back of the head.

“Come _on_!” Simmons yells. “Ward!”

She sounds terrified and that snaps him out of it well enough to follow her. They stumble along the hallways together. His legs are still limp from whatever hit him back there and it’s all he can do to keep upright. He’s completely lost track of where they are by the time she throws them through a door, into a small storage room.

She lets go of his arm to lock the door behind them, and he falls like a puppet with its strings cut. His skin feels like ice and he can still hear his brother’s cries for help. He can also hear yelling over the comms. When he tries to respond, his teeth chatter too much for him to speak.

“Don’t come down here!” Simmons yells. “There’s-” She sighs heavily and slides down the face of the door to sit in front of Grant. She stares at him and whatever she sees in his face must be bad because she says, “Evacuate the building. Head back to the Bus and monitor for small, localized shifts in temperature. If we’re lucky, it will leave on its own.”

“What will?” Coulson asks. “Simmons, what’s down there?”

“I- I can’t explain right now, sir. Please, I need you to trust me. Agent Ward and I are fine for the moment but you’re all still in danger.”

“If whatever’s in there poses a threat to the general population-”

“Sir,” Grant says. He’s warmed up enough to speak even if he still feels like he just fell in a frozen lake. “I got within five feet of the guy and I couldn’t move. If Simmons hadn’t shown up to drag me out of there I’d be dead. We don’t know enough about this guy to engage.”

“All right. We’ll fall back and monitor the situation until we know more. You two hold tight.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant and Simmons say in unison.

The line goes dead and Grant looks to her. “You’re keeping something from Coulson.” It’s completely unlike her to withhold information, especially information that could help the team. And they _do_ need help - or she thinks they do anyway, if her instructions to cower in the Bus are any indication. “Do you know that guy?" he asks a little sharply. "Is that what’s going on here?”

“What guy?”

He grits his teeth. The effects of … of _whatever_ happened back there are wearing off and the rage is rising up in its absence. “The man,” he says tersely, “in the cell. The one who attacked me.”

She stares at him with dawning horror. “Oh. You said you’d found a survivor.” She puts a hand to her lips and he realizes she’s holding back tears. “That poor man.”

“’ _Poor man_ ’?” Grant snaps, just barely remembering to keep his voice down. “I was trying to help him and he attacked me!”

“No, no. He didn’t! It was-” Her shoulders sag. “Oh, you’ll never believe me.”

“Believe what?” he bites out.

“What you encountered in that room,” she says slowly, her palms up in her lap like she’s holding the information out to him, “it wasn’t the man. He was just a victim of the creature.”

Shock cools the anger momentarily. “I didn’t see any creature.”

“I know. You- you can’t.”

The way she says it, the implication that he failed to see the threat, brings his rage right back to the surface. “What do you mean, I _can’t_?”

She looks up over his head for what to say, her head tipping from side to side as she searches and her mouth thinning into a tight line. “You’re physically incapable of seeing it.”

He waits impatiently for her to explain.

She shifts uneasily under his gaze. “I don’t know why. I only know that there’s something that prevents all but a small portion of the population from seeing it.”

“ _Simmons_ ,” he groans. This conversation is like pulling teeth. Actually, he’s pulled teeth to get intel before; it was easier than this. “You’re part of this small portion of the population?” he asks, trying to adopt a more generous tone.

She nods. “Yes.”

“And why have I never heard about this before? That there are - what? - _creatures_ out there that are invisible. To most people.”

“It’s a conspiracy,” she says like she’s tired of holding onto the secret. “There is a vast, global conspiracy to hide the truth from Mu- from the rest of the population.”

That … sounds disturbingly familiar. “What?” he asks, wondering if her vast, global conspiracy has anything to do with his. “And hide the truth from who?”

She sighs, defeated. “Muggles.”

There is just no way in hell he’s saying such an obviously made up word, even to ask for confirmation, so he only stares.

“That creature,” she says, “outside. It’s called a Dementor. It - and the people who can see it - are …” Her eyes slip shut like she can’t bear to face him when she says this next part. “Magical.”

He thinks, up until she actually opens her eyes again, that he’s got a hold on it, but then she looks at him with that sad, puppy face and he can’t help it. He laughs.

Up until it hits him that Simmons _cannot lie_. Oh, shit.

“You’re serious?” he asks.

She hugs her knees to her chest. “Yes,” she says in what is definitely a pout. He’s not surprised, with the way she usually dismisses claims of magic.

“Wait. You’re magical, but you always-”

“Well technically I’m not. My parents are though - it skips generations sometimes - which is why I can see things that are magically cloaked from Muggle vision.”

He huffs out a laugh. “They have a stupid word for that too?”

“Yes. Squib.” The bitterness in her voice is something he’s never heard from Simmons before.

He gives her a careful once-over. She’s a part of the conspiracy, but she’s really not. And she resents it.

“I bet that was tough,” he says carefully, “seeing a world you couldn’t be a part of.”

Her legs slide out and she plucks at imaginary lint on her jeans. “I had my science.”

“It’s not the same.” Her plucking stops, so he continues. “SHIELD, the life I have with them, it’s great. But it’s not the same as having loving parents.”

“My parents love me,” she says quickly.

He holds up his hands. “I know. I know. It’s obvious - I mean, the way you are with them?” He smiles and pretends not to notice how her expression falls. “I just mean I get it, how a messed up home life can lead you here.” He wraps his arms loosely around his knees. “And you don’t have to worry. I won’t tell-” The lie dies on his lips as his breath fogs in front of his face. “Simmons? You said something about localized temperature changes?”

“Yes, the Dementor causes- oh no.” She’s seen it too.

He scrambles to his feet. “Can it get past the door? Phase through it or something?”

“No. But I don’t know that anyone’s ever thought to measure a Dementor’s strength before. The magical world is woefully lacking in basic scientific curiosity.”

If she says more - and it’s Simmons, so that’s a good possibility - he doesn’t hear it. The ice around his heart is back. His bones feel heavy, his muscles limp. They’re trapped in this tiny room and there’s no way out. They might as well lay down here, accept their fate.

Simmons’ hands burn against his shoulders, even through his tac gear. She’s shaking him, saying something, but the yelling in his ears is louder.

His vision goes dark and he lets his head fall forward. Simmons catches his weight and

SMACK!

The instincts left behind by the berserker staff rise up and he slams his attacker against the door. Simmons winces at the impact but doesn’t cry out.

“You need to fight back,” she says sternly, like she’s telling him not to tear his stitches.

The cold is already overpowering him again, breaking through the rage to reach down deep inside him. His arms fall to his sides, releasing her.

She catches his face in her hands. “Wizards fight Dementors with happy memories. You need to focus if you’re going to keep it out of your head.”

“Staff,” he grunts as he sinks to the floor. Her fingers grasp at the front of his vest, trying to hold him upright, but she only manages to get herself pulled down with him.

“What?”

“Berserker staff.” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth and his teeth chatter. “Don’t have many happy thoughts these days.”

She yells but it only blends with his brother’s screams, the screams of all the people he’s hurt. She hits him but it only reminds him of his mother. There’s nothing left in him except pain. Pain to hold. Pain to inflict. It’d be better to be empty.

His lips and cheeks burn. Warmth slides into his mouth and the feeling reaches down his spine to every inch of him. His hands come up instinctively to grip tiny hips. They buck slightly at the contact and the lips almost pull away from his but he can’t let the warmth go. He _won't_. He catches them back and the answering sigh reverberates through his chest. Fingers slide up into his hair, nails drag along his scalp. He groans in appreciation, cups her ass, pulls her closer to him.

The cold’s long gone and his tac gear feels too cumbersome. He slips one hand between them to reach for the buckles.

“I think it’s gone,” Simmons says. She pushes up, her hands on either side of his head, and looks to the door. He should probably be looking too - defending them is his job, after all - but he can’t seem to look away from her lips or the flush that goes from the top of her head down under her frustratingly high collar.

His breath is labored, but he can’t see it. “Yeah,” he says.

She smiles and climbs swiftly off him. She’s tiny, barely weighs a thing, but he misses her pressing down on him the moment she’s gone. He forces himself to sit up.

“Sorry about that,” she says, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “It was the fastest way I could think to give you something positive to think about.”

“It worked,” he sighs out in lieu of forgiveness (that isn’t something he wants to forgive her for). He runs a hand through his hair. “So. Wizards.” 

“Yes.” She worries her lower lip. He looks away. “I’d really rather not talk about it, to be frank. I’m not supposed to.”

“Does SHIELD know?” If SHIELD doesn’t know, it’s possible HYDRA doesn’t either, and that could make this some very valuable intel.

“I don’t know, honestly. Because of my- my condition, I tend not to be considered a part of the magical community. If there are wizards in SHIELD, they’re unlikely to have noticed me.”

He scoots a little closer to her and runs a firm hand along her spine. She leans readily into the touch. “Then they’re idiots,” he says. He means it too. From what she’s said about these people, he doubts any of them are in an organization like SHIELD. “Lack of basic scientific curiosity” isn’t something that meshes well with the principles Peggy Carter founded them on - or the principles HYDRA was built on.

She beams up at him, tears shimmering in her eyes. She wipes them away hastily. “Oh, goodness. Look at me. Crying over a little brush up with a Dementor.”

He smiles at the obvious lie and slips his hand towards her shoulder. She immediately leans into his side. He keeps himself stiff, awkward like he doesn’t quite know how to hold a woman, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it.

She goes back to picking lint off her jeans and when she runs out of any on her own, moves on to the knee pressed against hers. “Would you mind,” she asks carefully, “not telling the others about this?”

“Fitz doesn’t know?” he asks, tone pitched to sound innocently confused.

She shakes her head and her hair brushes against his neck. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

He pretends to think it over. The truth is, he doesn’t want anyone else to know. If he’s the only one who has her confidence, that puts him at a huge advantage.

“Well, if you ever want to,” he says, tightening his grip on her shoulder. She may not like talking about it with other people who think less of her, but Grant isn’t those people. Now that she has a _friend_ who knows, he imagines she’ll find plenty of reason to talk about it.

She doesn’t answer at all, which is as good as an agreement. He pulls her a little closer to his chest and rests his chin on her head, half-formed plans turning over in his mind until Coulson’s voice crackles over the comms, letting them know the temperature anomaly is moving away from the building.


End file.
